


The Way we are Now

by Rulerofthefakeempire



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Abandonment, Concert Pianist, F/M, Human Names, M/M, Poverty, human!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 15:04:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4569012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rulerofthefakeempire/pseuds/Rulerofthefakeempire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gilbert had four brothers, and they weren't really brothers. They had each come from different places and different cities, and they lived in a downtown flat that smelt like decay and looked like hell, and they looked after themselves. </p><p>Their father didn't live with them, but traveled around with his estranged Italian while his sons attempted to survive both the world and it's good intentions, and also each other. </p><p>And Gilbert was looking at Roderich in a different way than he had before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_I walked a mile with Pleasure,_

_She chatted all the way,_

_But she left me none the wiser,_

_For what she had to say._

_I walked a mile with Sorrow_

_And ne’er a word said she,_

_But, oh, the things I learnt from her,_

_When Sorrow walked with me._

-       _Robert Browning Hamilton_

 

He was there.

 

He was always there, waiting patiently for him, diligently writing down his school work, writing music, cooking, mending, always there, always waiting with a warm meal and an almost warm welcome. The candlelight flickered because they couldn’t afford that much electricity and reflected off his glasses, shining, always shining, always waiting, every night, never a failing day.

 

He sat at the end of the kitchen table, facing the door, still in his school clothes, his hair still combed, his eyes still weary. The eyes that were weary were half open and his shoulders were still and steady and when he stepped through the door to their tiny apartment he didn’t look up or smile at him, he just remained, ears pricked, waiting like he did.

 

Their apartment wasn’t pretty; it had never been pretty and their third home in a year. The wallpaper on the walls was ripped and stained and all four rooms smelt permanently of sawdust and white board markers. Each room was in a desperate state of decay and every appliance needed to be replaced and still they persevered, fighting and living and not giving up.

 

Roderich wasn’t really his brother, not quite. His father, their father, had an odd habit of collecting boys, all different boys, from different places and different cities and then setting them off to survive in the great wide world all by themselves, promising to be a good father, to save them from their previous lives. The youngest was Arthur and he was four, and then Ludwig was eight, Vash was Ten, Roderich was fifteen and Gilbert was seventeen, the oldest.

 

And they lived in a small, downtown flat that smelt like rotting cheese and decay and they took care of themselves.

 

“You don’t have to wait for me, you know,” Gilbert said, putting his rucksack down on the table, and stumbling over to the fridge. His younger not-brother didn’t look up at him, but simply turned a page in his textbook instead.

 

“If I didn’t wait for you I wouldn’t get anything done,” he said quietly, squinting at the small font and leaning in close, his glasses not as strong as he needed. Gilbert wanted to get him new ones, but they just couldn’t afford it.

 

He would, Roderich was an honor student; he would find a way to get everything done, he was just that sort of person. Gilbert had dropped out of school when he was in year ten and worked in construction, often until late at night, doing the paper work that his boss didn’t feel like. He needed to, it was necessary, they had run out of money and part time jobs weren’t doing the trick like they used to.

 

Roderich, on the other hand, refused. He couldn’t continue that cycle, he knew, in his soul; if he could get a job that paid well he could protect them. He could send Arthur to a better preschool, he could buy Vash that phone he wanted for his birthday, Gilbert could go to college; he just needed to be able to take care of them. Gilbert understood that.

 

“Any word from dad?” He pulled out some milk and took a quick sip; he’d had some dinner on the way home anyway, he didn’t need anything more.

 

Roderich still didn’t look up at him.

 

“None. And I need you to come to my parent-teacher conference next week.” This was tradition, or at least habit, Gilbert went to all of their conferences. If the officials at their school found out their dad was a deadbeat traveler who occasionally showed up with another kid they’d be sent into foster care so quick they would break the sound barrier.

 

“Sure. Arthur?”

 

They would do this every night.

 

Every night Roderich would wait for him to come home and he would enquire about their boys and how they were doing and then, they would go to bed, and try to sleep.

 

“In bed, sleeping like a baby.” They had only had Arthur for about two years, he was from a small town in northern England, and they were very fond of him, despite how small and grumpy he was.

 

“How do you do that? He never does that with me.” He leaned back on the counter; the milk carton still in his hands and his not-brother finally looked up at him, resting his chin on his palm, eyes half open as ever; never quite unimpressed or indifferent, just… tired.

 

“Chamomile tea with milk and honey, out like a light.” Roderich went back to his schoolwork, but kept his ears trained on his older brother.

 

“Luddy?”

 

“Sleeping on the sofa; had a tummy ache.” Ludwig had been the first to be adopted, and that had been seven years ago when he had just been a baby, adopted when he was only one year old. Gilbert, who was their father’s actual son, had taken an immense like to him, so well mannered and easy to please and tiny, completely tiny.

 

“Vash?”

 

Vash was Roderich’s younger brother, in a related sort of way, his father had adopted them only a year after Luddy had come into the mix and suddenly he had four children instead of two. Vash had been three and Roderich had been seven, all watchful eyes and sneers, holding his brother’s hands tight, nearly completely silent. Apparently they’d been in some sort of assault situation; he didn’t like to talk about it, Vash didn’t remember.

 

“Sleeping in the cot; hasn’t as yet gotten suspended.”

 

Gilbert smiled, there was something so precise about Roderich, something so clean cut and clear, and it was almost beautiful.

 

And then finally:

"You?"

 

Roderich looked up at him again, taking a second to blink before looking back down at his schoolwork, closing himself off once again, like he always did.

 

"Fine."

 

He always said fine.

 

"You look tired."

 

He did and he knew it. There were dark circles under his eyes and his body was weaned and withering and he survived, pushing through each day with a single footstep, thundering and silent all the same.

 

Gilbert worked a lot, as much as he could, they needed the money, but it was Roderich who really kept them afloat. He got the boys to school, he found money where money had not been before; he handled almost all the finances. He was the one that stripped their father of all he had whenever they saw him, he was the one who did the housework and negotiated with the rent.

 

He was the one who took care of them.

 

And some sickening feeling in his stomach told Gilbert that he was slowly killing himself doing it.

 

"Probably."

 

Gilbert put the milk back inside their ancient fridge and rubbed his hand over his younger not-brother's dark hair, he was the only one with dark hair out of all of them.

 

"Bedtime, sleep now."

 

Roderich complied silently and easily, easing himself from his seat and following behind the man, blowing out the candles as he went. Past the two boys sleeping in the living room they walked and into the one bedroom where the little boy slept.

 

Arthur slept in the middle of the queen-sized bed with the lumpy mattress and the soft blankets, on his tummy with his special pillow and his soft snores.

And without speaking they sat down on their own sides of the bed, shedding their clothes, suddenly weary with exhaustion, suddenly unable to function or speak.

 

By the time that Gilbert turned around again Roderich was curled under the blankets, his dark hair poking out the top, his clothes folded in neat piles on the floor and his glasses folded on the bedside table and Gilbert couldn't tell if he was asleep.

 

He didn't care, all he could do was crawl into bed with his not-brothers and try to dream of a time when he was less tired and less hungry and less yearning. As the blankets grew warmer with his body heat, he listened to the sound of their breathing, he listened to their hearts and the hearts in the living room, the hearts he held close to his own.

 

"Are you okay?" He asked the air, staring at the outline of dark curls over the boy in the middle.

 

"I'll get better," the air answered; honesty only in the darkness.  

 

And then he reached out his arm and buried his fingers into Roderich’s soft curls and fell asleep.

 

...

 

When he woke up again the boys were gone, off to school, all four, and flat was silent and empty.

 

And there was a small note taped to his forehead covered in his younger not-brother’s handwriting.

 

_Gone to school, clean the bathroom._

-       _Roderich_

_P.s. There is lunch in the fridge_

_P.p.s. If you eat my pie, I’ll have you crucified_

…

 

Roderich stood at the gate to Ludwig and Vash’s public school, watching them walking together while Arthur babbled incessantly by his side. Roderich patted his head fondly and Vash looked over his shoulder to wave at him, telling him that it was his cue to go.

 

He took Arthur’s hand and began to walk out the school gate, next stop was the daycare center, but before they were even a few steps over the threshold someone was calling out to him and he paused, turning around to see a woman in stockings and a pencil skirt walking hurriedly towards him with her hair in a bun.

 

“Sir? Sir!” She called, both his brother and the teacher looking towards him and suddenly he felt like a predator was cornering him. Somehow he thought it would be inappropriate to turn heel and run.

 

“Yes ma’am?” He asked, because he had been taught to treat women nice, even if they were kind of scary and he had the strange urge to dive into the undergrowth.

 

“Are you Vash’s older brother? I’m his teacher.” Roderich nodded and Arthur looked excitedly up at the woman, because he could just tell that something interesting was about to happen.

 

“Miss Elizabeta?” Vash had told him about her, she seemed nice, he had told him that she acted like she wanted to help; Roderich raised his chin, wondering if he was going to need to stage an intervention.

 

“Yes, that’s me,” she said swiftly, “And you must be Roderich? The fourth brother?” All the boys were encouraged by Gilbert to speak fondly of their siblings so that people thought that they had a good home life. Some sort of happy family ritual, at least they tried. They pretended.

 

Roderich nodded again. 

 

“Is there a parent I can speak to? A guardian?”

 

She seemed well intentioned, but Roderich was tensing up with the questions, he didn’t like questions, he liked the brother’s that weren’t quite his brothers too much for that.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said as regally as he could, “I don’t have parents, we’re looked after by my older brother, Gilbert, and perhaps you would be wanting to speak to him?” He actually did have parents, somewhere in Austria or Germany or somewhere, they just didn’t get on to the point that the authorities had gotten involved and he had broken both his collar bones, four ribs and had scars all over his back.

 

“Oh right, the adoption thing,” no, not the adoption thing, the ‘my dad is a irresponsible traveller who runs around with a estranged Italian and whose only contact is a check every month that would not keep a college student living on two minute noodles afloat for very long’ thing. “Do you think that I could talk to him at some point? About Vash?”

 

Roderich raised his chin higher; protective urges almost taking over, Arthur tugged at his hand.

 

“He’s not very good at meetings because he works a lot, but I can give you his number.” She nodded and he wrote it on the back of a receipt he had in his pocket. For the record it wasn’t Gilbert’s number, it was his, but he could make his voice go real deep and German so it wouldn’t be a problem, Gilbert had enough to deal with anyway.

 

He could protect him this way, at least.

 

This was what he could do.

 

…

 

The call came during his lunch break, though not the one been expecting, while he was in the music rooms, because he was always in the music rooms during lunch, because he never actually had any lunch. He felt his phone buzzing in his pocket while he was in the middle of a Chopin melody, but he could find it within himself to answer it.

 

He didn’t play because he needed the practice, he played because it was peaceful, because in music he was whole, he was front and center, he was easy, he was simple. He was just a boy and the piano was just a piano and they, together, did marvelous things and it wasn’t as complicated everything else.

 

If he didn’t play music, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself.

 

But then the song ended and he was back to being in his life, and he needed to answer the phone because he needed to and he had responsibilities that out-weighed any song he could play. The phone had long stopped buzzing by this point, but he could easily call them back, so that’s what he did. He raised it to his ear and sighed, leaning his forehead against the cold wood of the piano and tried to breath deeply. He was so tired.

 

“Hello?” He tried.

 

“Roderich, I need a favor.” Jesus, of all the words he didn’t need to hear…

 

“What is it?”

 

“I need you to work tonight.” What was in his voice said that he was actually going to give this favor? That was what he wanted to know.

 

“I don’t work nights, Mathias.” He had stated this many times, but the message never seemed to get across.

 

The fact was that Roderich had gotten himself a job, a good job, a well paying job. Gilbert didn’t know, he’d be horrified, but Gilbert’s job and the checks weren’t doing enough. They needed another bed, a better flat, they needed a space that the boys could have their friends over too without feeling embarrassed. They needed the money and Roderich had a skill he could sell.

 

“Look, Roddy, I wouldn’t call on you if I wasn’t desperate, I just need you to play-”

 

“I don’t. Work. Nights,” Roderich repeated, and he heard Mathias sigh across the line. He didn’t have the patience for this.

 

“I’ll pay you double,” Roderich didn’t respond, he was too shocked. Double… “Three hundred big ones, you could buy your brother that phone he wanted with that couldn’t you? And all you need is to work one night and I’ll get you home by two, I’ll get Tino to drive you personally.” Tino was one of the barkeeps, with the tall, scary guy. He was nice and surprisingly chirpy.

 

But if he went then he wouldn’t be there to meet Gilbert, after all these years.

But he could get the boys to sleep before ten and then he’d work for a couple hours. It would be easy, simple. Just play. He could get Vash his phone; he’d even have a few dollars to buy that new kettle they needed.

 

But he wouldn’t be able to wait for Gilbert, he wouldn’t be there when he got home, and that, that was always going to be the deciding factor.

 

…

 

And when Gilbert arrived home that night, instead of that solitary figure at the dining table there was a microwavable meal wrapped in cling wrap, a single, flickering candle and a small note written in immaculate handwriting.

  
_Dear Gilbert,_

_Arthur: Sleeping in bed._

_Ludwig: Still has that tummy ache, also sleeping in the bed._

_Vash: Sleeping on the cot._

_Me: Out, back by two._

_Love,_

_Roderich_

 

And then, all there was was the silence and the emptiness of his return as panic slowly over took him. 


	2. Come Home to Me Soon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roderich plays for Mathias' crowd and when he comes home Gilbert is there waiting for him, waiting for him like Roderich was always waiting for him.

_A bruise is tender,_

_It does not last,_

_It leaves me as,_

_I always was._

_But a wound I take,_

_Much more to heart,_

_For a scar with always_

_Leave its mark._

_And if you should ask me,_

_Which you are,_

_My answer is,_

_You are a scar._

_\- Lang Leav_

 

Chapter 2:

Come Home to Me Soon

 

Mathias was there waiting for him when he arrived, standing with his hands behind his back beside the entry to his pub, pretending to be a bouncer. Mathias was a tall person, and his hair was spiky and he spoke like everything he said was god’s own poetry and you should appreciate it. And he grinned when he saw Roderich coming. It was perhaps 9:45 at night and the streets were dark and empty everywhere except outside of Mathias’ pub where people milled around, drinking beers, and chatting and laughing and being old.

 

They looked at him as if his being there confused them; he was confused too. He was too young for this, too young to be there, too young to be out and about, too young to have the worries that he had. But he was more powerful than they were, he could make them sit and stare in awe, he could make them listen to him even if he had nothing to say. It didn’t matter if he was an eight year old. Nobody played like he played, that was the point.

 

Mathias came walking towards him, arms out, looking distinctly pleased with himself, and going in for a quick embrace. Roderich let him.

 

He didn’t have a really older brother, but if he were to choose someone who was closest to that position it would be Mathias, or Berwald. Berwald was on of his cousins, from his old family, the family from before the father that forgot; that was how he had met Mathias. He had Gilbert, sort of, but Gilbert was never his older brother, that wasn’t how it worked. Gilbert was his friend, his ally, his partner, but not his older brother.

 

Never that.

 

So Roderich let him hold him and held him back.

 

Mathias knew how it was at home, he knew everything, Roderich told him everything, about the money trouble, and the lack of sleep. He was also the only person in the whole entire world who knew he was gay. The person who had all his secrets and still treated him like he was strong. Even Gilbert didn’t know all the things that he knew and he never held it against him, never told him that because of these things he couldn’t deal with them.

 

He never told him that they were too big.

 

Only that he didn’t deserve them.

 

“Roddy! Thank you so much for this, I totally owe you one.”

 

He drew Roderich under his arm, ruffling his hair and walking him towards the back entrance.

 

“You owe me many,” he muttered. He wasn’t wearing his work clothes, or even his school clothes. Instead he was wore Gilbert’s leather jacket for confidence, and his boots for durability, and the clothes he played in lived permanently in the second draw from the bottom in Mathias’ desk; his dress shirt and his pants and his silk waistcoat. That waistcoat was the most expensive thing he owned, but he refused to sell it. Berwald had owned it previously; it had belonged to their grandfather even though neither of them had ever met him. But it was too small for Berwald so when Roderich had begun to play for Mathias he had given it to his cousin, so that he had something proper to wear when he played for a crowd.

 

Mathias left him in the break room behind the bar to get dressed and wait to go on. He snoozed on the small sofa, his feet up for the first time since he had woken up, flipping vaguely through the booklet that Mathias had given him to play, requests from the crowd, a tactic he used to get people to stick around to hear their song get played.

 

They were simple songs, easy songs, songs he could do.

 

Being a human was a little bit harder.

 

He wondered haphazardly if Gilbert was home yet, if Gilbert knew that he wasn’t waiting for him like he should have been. He knew he wasn’t, not yet, but he would get there in maybe an hour. He’d be mid performance by then, at least he wouldn’t be paying attention; at least he wouldn’t have to go through that with him.

 

He closed his eyes, rubbing the golden buttons on his silk waistcoat between his fingers and reciting the chords in his head. He was almost asleep he when Tino walked in. Tino was the barkeep; he ran the pub with Mathias and the other men; the five of them each having a pitch, each of them, running a small part of pub, making it as successful as it was.

 

“Shouldn’t you be doing vocal exercises or something?”

 

He pinched the bridge of his nose and didn’t open his eyes.

 

“Can’t be bothered,” he muttered. He felt Tino rub his head like Gilbert did.

 

“Fair enough,” he paused as if he was considering something, “Mathias wants you to go on now,” he said.

 

Roderich sighed and opened his eyes, this was what he would do, this was what he could do, he could manage it, and he could live like this. Slowly he maneuvered his way to his feet, he raised his chin, and tugged down his waistcoat, and he rolled up his sleeves and walked into the war. The people in the bar watched him from the sides of their conversations, seeing how young he was, knowing that he shouldn’t have been there.

 

He ignored them, them and their half-drunk beer, and their eyes shining in the dim orange light, and he walked with his long strides and his nose up in the air and he breathed slowly and easily and simply and he only looked at the piano. The battered and aged piano, painted black, the ivory keys shining, and stepped up the stairs onto the short stage, and without a word but with the knowledge that people were looking at him and wanting to know who he was and what he was doing he slid onto the piano stool and a peace draped itself over him and suddenly the men with their drinking and their words were gone and it was just him and his ivory keys and the melodies in his head, and as his hands hovered over the black and white keys it suddenly felt like it was all going to be okay.

 

And he began to play, his fingers moving slowly over the keys and his exhaustion taking over him and the notes coming towards him like they were written in the caverns of his mind, forever recorded, always there, inscribed in his DNA and waltzing through his bloodstream. And the room was silent, except for him, him and his melodies; all eyes watching him, embracing his music, and their beers, and their miseries. And he was so good at this.

 

One song filed into another and another, until, just like that, he was done, the songs were over and he stood like he had the right to be there. Brushing himself off like he had fallen down and approaching the microphone, he lent down into it, and pushed his glasses up his nose.

 

“My name is Roderich Edelstein and it has been my pleasure playing for you tonight.” And then people stood and clapped for him, a roaring applause, standing ovation and all. He smiled just a single small smile and made his way off the stage, and through the door into the back room, still in something like daze. It must have been at least two now, long enough, enough for his three hundred dollars. Enough for so much sleep that he out lived the century.

 

And Tino and Berwald drove him home as promised, gathering him under their arms and chatting to him, while he yawned and nodded and thought about his bed. These were good people, these were people who took care of him, these were people who looked after him while he was looking after everyone else. They walked him up all the way to the shabby downtown apartment, tucked carefully under his cousin’s arm as if he might fall over at any moment and he was just so tired.

 

…

 

Roderich had been waiting for him to come home since he was ten, since their father had once and truly left them for the first time. He had been a pretty pragmatic ten-year-old, smart enough, talented enough, almost completely silent, a selective mute of sorts. He still stuck close to Vash, protecting him, and even Ludwig, like he had accepted him as another person who was under his care. Gilbert was the only one he had never really accepted as a brother. They didn't even get one very well at the time, but in his heart of hearts he always felt like he wasn't good enough. Like he wasn't clean enough or determined enough for Roderich to love him.

 

Gilbert had been twelve and not as good at being abandoned as Roderich was when their father had first left. Roderich had had years of practice and Gilbert always thought that his little brother knew that eventually it would all come crashing down on him again. He would wait at the dining table of the house they were renting until he came home from school, after picking up Vash from kinder Kindergarten and Ludwig from daycare.

 

Years pasted and their living conditions got worse and worse, and Gilbert had to get a job and then another and another, and Roderich was always awaiting him, never a day when he wasn't there, patiently waiting for his return. They began in icy alliance and grew into vague dislike that grew into vague affection. And the progress continued.

 

But never brother.

 

They never managed to be brothers.

 

Gilbert waited in the living room just unseen by the door and listened carefully to the hushed voices that conversed there. He could hear his little not-brother among them, mumbling things and general condolences. He gripped Vash's baseball bat in his hands tighter. He had long carried Vash himself into the bedroom to sleep with his brothers, so that he would be able to be alone with Roderich when he came home.

 

He had spent the past three and a half hours building up his maturity, and the fact that he was older and despite all allegations to the contrary he was in charge. He had authority, he was the oldest, he brought home money. e was in charge.

 

He was fairly sure he was in charge.

And he was so glad that Roderich was home. He was half an hour late and if he had been gone for another fifteen minutes he would of had to go and look for him. And god, it felt like some great weight had been lifted from his shoulders and he was going to hug something, but god, his boy was home.

 

"Get s'me sleep, ki'" one of the voices said. A gruff voice, a heavily accented voice.

 

"When are you next working?" A different voice asked. Working? Roderich didn't work. He was fifteen and pretty hopeless actually. He was only good at sleeping and cleaning and… music… ing.

 

"Wednesday," he heard Roderich say.

 

"Sweetie," the different voice said, "today is Wednesday. Why don't you take the day off, and we'll book you in for Thursday afternoon, 'Kay?"

 

And then the voices left, and the bat slackened in his hands with the closing of the door. He sighed as quietly as he could and leant his back against the wall, listening to the sound of Roderich putting down his bag and stumble around the kitchen, putting something in a tin, stubbing his toe against the table and taking off his shoes as if it was the hardest thing he had ever been asked to do. Gilbert waited for him to come into the living room, they needed to talk; there were talks that needed to happen because he was in charge and Roderich had gone out at night without his permission and he was in charge.

 

Finally he stumbled in, in this brief slip of composure, and he was wearing clothes that Gilbert had never seen before. A silk waistcoat, it's shining golden buttons undone and pants and a shirt untucked. His hair was falling over his eyes, uncombed and for the first time in five years, maybe more, Roderich’s stone composure was cracking.

 

He collapsed almost immediately onto the sofa with an angry groan. He dropped his glasses to the floor and hugged a small pillow to his chest, breathing in slow and steady and exhausted. Really, just, exhausted. And then something in his soul softened. All the speeches he had prepared, the lectures, the words he had thought of fell away and then just gut wrenching guilt buried into him and he couldn’t help, but think that this as all his fault, that everything that Roderich put himself through was his fault. He was killing him, he was destroying him, he felt like he was just ripping his little brother from limb from limb without even knowing it. With out even thinking about it.

 

He put down Vash’s baseball bat as quietly as he could; approaching the sofa like on it lay a cornered frightened animal. And as carefully as he could he wrapped his arms around him. Roderich jolted in his arms and all he could do was coo soft, comforting words.

 

“It’s alright, it’s just me. It’s just me, I’m right here.” The boy relaxed instantly in his arms, becoming limp and docile, allowing himself to be tugged up and over the older brother who he never quite accepted as his brother until he was lying on his chest with strong arms wrapped around him and three hundred and fifty dollars in his back pocket. Gilbert held him like he was very small, like he was precious and brave and important and he liked it more than he should’ve.

  
Gilbert rested his chin on soft curls and his forehead wrinkled, and then he took his head away and then buried it into the crook of his not-brother’s neck, Roderich grunted in confusion, but never managed to push him away while he was sniffed. Almost embracing the warmth of the neck he was snuggled against Gilbert pulled back with his eyebrows kissing.

 

“Why do you smell like beer?” He rested his chin back on his head; it wasn’t necessarily a bad smell, just not the one he was expecting.

 

“I was at a bar,” Roderich slurred, almost asleep, almost there.

 

“Why were you at a bar? You’re fifteen!” His voice was louder than he first expected.

 

Roderich only managed something about piano playing and a man named Mathias. Gilbert accepted that, he didn’t know why, he just did, maybe he was too tired to do anything, so he just held the boy he held very dear and tried to breath as best he could. Roderich slept on him, his arms wrapped around his waist, muttering, always muttering.

 

And Gilbert spent the night trying to make him comfortable the way that he was always trying to do for him, and he kissed the top of his head and vowed that he would do more, he would take care of him, he had to take care of him, what was the point if he couldn’t take care of the person he loved so much?


End file.
